


Remembering You, Silver & Golden

by moriamithril



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Childhood Friends, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fellowship of the Ring, Friends to Lovers, Some canon-like violence, Trying to stick well to the books but, some canon divergence as it is fanfiction!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28754475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriamithril/pseuds/moriamithril
Summary: (This was a reader fic, but I've changed it to have an original character.)Imogen Goodchild, cousin to Samwise, grew up alongside Pippin Took, often waiting to see Gandalf appear, waiting for hints of adventure. As they become of age, whispers throughout Hobbiton allude to the pair of them being matched together, yet they silently ignore them. A quest finally sets upon them, along with their kin Sam and Merry, the Conspirators who insisted Frodo not bear his burden alone. Danger and peril lies ahead for the Fellowship  and Imogen and Pippin, where a burgeoning love once sat aside begins to bloom. As the Fellowship begins to fall asunder, the evils of Sauron brewing, will their fates tear them apart?
Relationships: Peregin Took/OFC, Pippin Took/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	1. Of Names and Party Business

When Frodo Baggins came to live at Bag End with his old cousin Bilbo, he was twenty and one years old. Imogen Goodchild hadn’t emerged into the world by then, and neither had Pippin Took.

Pippin was from the northern end of the Shire, his father farming the lands round Whitwell near Tuckborough, in a modestly-sized but handsomely adorned hobbit hole that overlooked fields of wheat and barley. He shared this home with his parents and three older sisters, who were surely to be held responsible for the young hobbit’s casual, almost disinterested air when around girls.

The Took’s had their own tales of oddity wrapped up in their name, whispers which Bilbo Baggins - as of the name Took, on his mother's side - only perpetuated with his travels, always coming and going. If a dwarf or an elf passed through Bagshot Row, they were certain to be looking for the old hobbit, who always greeted them as old friends, treated them as dear ones are wont to be received when they appear on your doorstep. Of all of Bilbo’s visitors, it was the old grey wizard Gandalf who piqued Imogen and Pippin the most, the latter envying the former deeply for living so close to Bag End and often catching glimpses of the worn, tall hat atop the wizard’s head as it sometimes peeped up above hedges; a sight seen clear from her bedroom window on some occasions if she smelled his pipe smoke soon enough before disappearing behind Bilbo’s front door.

Pippin was no prince of the Shire but still from a gentlehobbit family, one with a name that inspired disproving looks but a good lineage nonetheless. The Goodchild’s were undoubtedly comfortable but mixed up with the Gamgee’s, and still had to work for a living, not granted the luxuries of a Baggins or a Brandybuck, and yet Imogen was too young to plainly see the differences between that of she and Pippin Took, who was allotted the time to roam the Shire as he saw fit.

Frodo had long been a permanent fixture there by the time Imogen had been old enough to know who he and Bilbo were, waiting for the older cousin of the two to sit outside his round door and smoke his pipe, eventually galavanting into stories of trolls and dragons, elves and dwarves, and creatures unheard of with voices like a demon if enough children gathered there at once. Imogen’s closest-to-kin cousin by the name of Samwise was nearly nine years her senior, minding her without complaint when she’d insist on accompanying him in the gardens of Bag End. Liberal were the crocuses that sprouted up beneath the old oak tree that faced the lane, just besides Mr. Bilbo’s grand window within his dining room. Often Imogen would sit while Sam toiled happily, plucking out little weeds and cutting back the encroaching comfrey, occasionally handing her little mint leaves to chew on while she’d listen to Frodo read aloud to the older hobbit. Imogen often helped the old Gaffer - who was brother to her mother - and Sam carry up buckets of seed potatoes, of compost and shovels and spades up to Bag End, and only saw it as a chance to see the Shire from such a lovely spot, of a chance to listen to Bilbo’s stories, or to have a scone or two with the gentle Frodo. Both of sweet dispositions and spirits, Imogen grew to watch a friendship blossom between her cousins and the Baggin’s, who often insisted Sam join them for tea and supper, Sam appearing bashful and humble with each invitation, no matter how the years pressed on. Imogen recalled one such occasion: she had been only nine, and was led by the hand of the Gaffer in tears of despair from Bag End when Samwise was asked to dinner but she was demanded at home by her mother, who urged her to leave old Bilbo alone. Frodo had handed her cake wrapped in a lovely linen cloth and patted her head before seeing her off.

‘One day you shall join us, too,’ he’d whispered.

Hobbits are born often, especially in the spring and summer, and the few years that led up to Imogen’s birth and followed Pippin were sparsely blessed with children. There had been a long stretch of warm, short winters, inspiring hard work and making hay while the sun shined, as some would call it, and did not inspire things that might result in babies and such. Pippin was one of five other young ones born within the two summers that succeeded balmy winters, and thus became a playmate of Imogen.

Imogen at first often hated the young Took in their very early years. Spirited in such a way that boarded on obnoxious, he was exhaustingly lively and active, and Imogen found herself cross as his head of strawberry blonde refused to slow down enough to allow her to keep up (one thing that inspired her to wear trousers for much of her childhood and beyond; she’d rather spare her mother the mending, coming home with torn and muddied petticoats and skirts). And yet, Pippin still became a constant companion, too lighthearted and cheerful, too amusing to abandon, his shortcomings easily eclipsed by the good, for he was generous with his lunches, kind and considerate, always bringing extra fishing poles and bait, and never allowing Imogen to walk home alone.

The summer Imogen was just shy of twelve and Pippin eleven earlier that May, Pippin ran from the fields of Whitwell to Bagshot lane, hanging on the weathered fence painted a soft, buttery yellow outside Imogen’s father’s home.

‘Are you going with Sam today?’ he’d often say, even as Imogen emerged past the round door, a deep red like that of winterberry holly fruit, her dirt-laden trousers held up by a worn leather belt that was far too long for her waist and hung down her hip like a wilted sheath, a trowel in hand.

‘What does it _look_ like to you, Peregrin Took?’ Imogen would reply dryly, though she’d be pleased to see him. ‘Shant you be behind a book, or studying?’

He’d shrug, grimacing slightly. ‘May I come?’ he’d ask, as if expecting her to suddenly tell him to go home. On this particular day, an August morning thick with the promise of heat and humidity, the sun shone behind the sloping green hills in a pink sky. Pippin’s curls looked nearly red in the premature light. ‘Perhaps we’ll be hearing more _party busines_ s,’ he whispered so loudly that anyone close enough would have certainly heard it.

Imogen was nearly twelve, and for the first time in some years, the very short gap between her and Pippin’s birthdays felt quite important, so she forced herself to point her chin out as she approached the fence. With an air of dignity that did not suit her, for it was unneeded in the presence of the uncritical young Took, she ignored the sweeping excitement that brewed inside of her.

‘Perhaps we may,’ she said, a noncommittal purse of her lips indicated that she did not care if they caught word either way. Her acting was not beyond Pippin, who noted the change in her as her birthday drew nearer.

‘Oh, you might act like a lady if it _pleases_ you,’ he retorted, and Imogen curtsied as he opened the gate for her, another new habit she was attempting to adopt. She felt slightly annoyed when her friend did not compliment her on it. ‘But you’re just as excited for Gandalf’s fireworks as I am.’

She stared at her companion, mouth in a thin line as if to say, ‘fireworks are for children,’ but barely kept up the ruse; she spurted out a laugh as her face broke out into a beaming smile, and a relieved Pippin joined her. ‘Yes, I am. Perhaps more so than even you. But what makes you think of old Gandalf? Surely he’ll come to Bilbo’s birthday, but I have not yet to see him arrive. I would know,’ she added, another sophomoric attempt at haughtiness clinging to her as she shook out her ashy head of curls, catching silver in the sun.

Pippin leaned into her conspiratorially. ‘Gandalf has arrived at Bag End,’ he said, nearly shaking with excitement to be the one to deliver the news. ‘Saw his cart last night!’

‘You saw it?’ Imogen cried, ‘and why didn’t you fetch me to see? When was this?’

‘Oh, it was nearly dark; I did come to fetch you! Your father sent me away, however; said it was too late. I think he saw Gandalf, though,’ he said, frowning sadly. ‘He likely didn’t want us to bother with him.’

Imogen’s irritation at this was quickly dimmed with elation; Gandalf was in the Shire, and a magic shivered in her veins. Absentmindedly she joined Pippin and went slack against the fence; Sam and uncle Gaffer still broke their fast, and time stood still as the two young hobbits silently envisioned the party that was supposed to take place in the month that followed.

  
Imogen’s eyes wandered up the lane towards Bag End, and a strong gust of urgency rushed through her. ‘Do you think we might ever go on adventures, Peregrin?’ she asked her friend in a hushed voice. She had recently taken to calling him by his proper name, and he did not ask her to stop, so she continued to do so.

‘Why not?’ he said brightly, and when she turned back to look upon him, he was grinning widely. ‘We can do whatever we’d like, can’t we? Bilbo surely did.’

‘Easy for a Took to say,’ Imogen replied, and he nudged her with an elbow to her waist.

‘Then I shall deem it so, if it is easy for me,’ he said in a determined fashion, puffing his chest out. Imogen rolled her eyes, in the way that a girl nearing twelve might in the presence of a boy nearly half a year younger, but could not suppress a smile.

‘It’s going to be hot today,’ she warned. ‘Likely not a comfortable day to be in a garden, out in the sun.’

‘Then I shall watch you from the shade,’ he said. ‘Waiting with a pitcher of water and biscuits.’

‘Lazy,’ Imogen stated. ‘A lazy young Took who thinks he’s off to venture with Gandalf the Grey.’

‘Lazy!’ he parroted back, shaking his head of curls. ‘And I shall one day, you’ll see. And you, if you’re not too busy curtseying all over like a new lamb learning to walk on bendy little knees.’

Imogen blushed furiously, brandishing her trowel in Pippin’s direction, who only laughed. ‘Take it back, Peregrin.’

‘Come on, now, Im,’ he coaxed her, laughing. ‘I only said it because you called me lazy. Let us be happy, for Gandalf is here!’

Letting her arm and her makeshift weapon fall back down to her side, burying her creeping embarrassment, she nodded in agreement. ‘Gandalf is here, yes,’ she said, leaning back against the fence again. ‘Let’s be happy.’


	2. Of Birthdays and Rings

The day of Bilbo’s party was delivered with sunshine and humid warmth, but summer had fully waned, only recently giving passage to autumn, and the nights were met with a damp chill, and dew clung to the clovers peppering the hills. 

Imogen had had her twelfth birthday, and she’d requested her mother sew a new dress for the occasion in lieu of the big event to follow. Bluebell Sandheaver - a playmate nearly two years Imogen’s senior who barely tolerated the fact that Imogen often wore trousers, never had any decent cakes to share at luncheon, and was often rather disheveled for a maidenchild - was the only attendee of Imogen’s own birthday tea besides the son and heir of the Thain of the Shire himself, Peregrin Took. 

The very fresh and raw memory of such a poorly-attended affair made Imogen’s cheeks heat with shame.

‘Sugar cakes,’ Bluebell had said in a bored exclamation upon sitting on the gingham blanket on the grass, watching Imogen with a look of great disdain as she set out chipped plates (her mother wouldn’t allow her only decent china to set foot out beyond the front garden). ‘All you’ve ever got are sugar cakes.’

Imogen froze, clutching a particularly weathered tea saucer to her chest as if to shield herself with it. ‘These have candied violets,’ she pointed out in a defeated tone, forgetting to hold out her chin with pride, dismissing the older girl’s impoliteness - for a true lady knew one did not insult their host’s offered meals, no matter how dull or simple they may be.

‘Oy!’ Pippin said at that moment, and Bluebell could hardly hide the roll of her eyes, and she pursed her lips as she faced the young aristocrat. She had even less patience for the wild Took, but was friends with his elder sisters, and wanted to be well thought-of by them, despite their namesakes, for the Took’s had lushious hills with a wide variety of wildflowers and well-packed lunches. ‘What a rude interruption to a rather lovely picnic, if you ask me,’ Pippin carried on, grimacing with a look of speculation at Bluebell, who now looked horrified. Plucking up a sugar cake, he took an enormous bite, letting several crumbs fall down his tunic. ‘If you won’t have yours, I will be glad to eat it _for_ you. And if your appetite is so poor, perhaps you won’t be joining Im and I for the blackberry tarts my mother’s packed for us. Surely my dear sisters will be saddened to hear of you being so _ill_ , as to not accept a gift from a friend on their birthday.

Bluebell’s eyes widened to a look of uncomfortable shock; Pippin, pretending not to notice, placed his half-eaten cake down on a handkerchief and fetched the sugar cubes from Imogen’s basket. Obnoxious and fool-hardy as Pippin Took was, he lacked any care or concern for the harsh judgements of others, especially if their motive was to ruin a perfectly good picnic. A strong surge of appreciation had welled inside of Imogen, reigning over any insecurity imposed on her by Bluebell. 

As she readied herself for Bilbo’s, she remembered how she’d watched Peregrin, unbothered and confident, arranging Imogen’s tea set as if he’d been proud to do it. _I dare you to say anything to contradict me_ , he seemed to silently say. As Imogen tirelessly had been trying to groom herself into someone new and unfamiliar, Pippin carried on, ignoring the scowls he earned from nearly everyone in the Shire. A cockiness born from his bloodline surely propelled much of this, but he often seemed to use it for good, albeit disruptiveness, rather than anything of poor intent. 

Deciding she had spared Pippin Took entirely enough thought for one morning, given as he was now _much_ younger than her, she squared her jaw and smartened the crisp apron of white and eyelet lace over her new dress, a bachelor’s button-blue frock with sleeves that met at her elbows. Dirty blonde hair framed her face, and she felt very grown up, and yet a childlike excitement bloomed inside her belly in preparation for the evening. 

‘Oh, try not to tear it,’ her mother whined, smoothing out the back of her dress after Imogen emerged into the kitchen. 

Imogen sighed impatiently, trembling with anticipation as she allowed her mother to fuss for a moment longer. ‘I won’t tear it,’ she replied, trying her best not to huff. A flash of movement out the front window beside the door caught her eye. ‘How would I manage to tear a dress at a garden party?’

‘You always come back a right mess if you’ve been running about with Master Peregrin,’ her mother reminded her, frowning. 

Imogen pulled away, scanning her mother’s face. Petunia Goodchild was younger than her husband by nearly nine years, and still possessed a lightness in her face. A stern kindness shone through a knowing look. 

‘I’m not _running_ _about_ with Pippin,’ Imogen told her, using his nickname, as if by using it would preserve him as nothing more than a childhood playmate. ‘I’m going to a _party_.’

‘And the young Thain’s been waiting along the fence line for the better half of an hour now,’ Petunia replied, mouth in a thin line, but something in her eyes seemed to twinkle. Imogen scrunched her face up at the gesture. 

Imogen’s head shot round the threshold of the kitchen as to glimpse out the little round window all the better; indeed Peregrin seemed to be twiddling with a silver pocket watch (‘I’ll eat my hat if he doesn't sit on it and break it before sundown,’ Imogen said to herself), wearing a freshly-pressed waistcoat of emerald green, and a silk scarf tied round his neck.

Imogen stared, a bit puzzled at the young Took. ‘What’s he wearing?’ she muttered under her breath in disbelief. ‘He’s only eleven!’ 

She did not take her eyes off the window as she felt the coat rack, grasping for a shawl for the inevitable evening chill. 

‘Your father and I will be there as soon as these scones are finished!’ Petunia called out from the kitchen, and with a noncommittal hum of understanding, Imogen hurried out the door to greet Peregrin. 

Slowly she made her way down the stone path, thick grass encroaching over them. Pippin appeared startled by the sound of the door closing shut, and she watched with growing amusement as he tucked the pocket watch away, fixing the small chain attached to it, and straightened himself out, rolling his shoulders back. 

It became utterly apparent to Imogen in that moment that Pippin meant to seem a mature gentlehobbit that evening, and she smirked as he made a dramatic show of bowing very low as she approached the fence, letting him open the gate for her. 

‘Your escort, my lady,’ he said, deepening his voice, offering the crook of his arm. 

Imogen scoffed but not unkindly, a strange mixture of embarrassment in herself and gratitude for the young Took washing over her. As they rounded the lane, coming into view of the bustling crowd, he broke away from her arm. 

‘I’m starving,’ Pippin announced breathlessly. ‘Are you as excited as I am?’

Imogen beamed as they squeezed past a neighbor, Pippin crinkling his nose in delight. She only nodded in response. 

‘I’m sorry it was only miserable old Bluebell at your party,’ he said in a lower voice, looking away as Bag End came into view, the massive oak tree dripping with flags and lights. ‘And _me_.’ 

‘Nonsense, Pip,’ Imogen said quickly. They stopped along the road, letting a large cart packed with tent canvas pass by, and swirling smoke taking the shape of large birds of prey appeared from behind the boxwood shrubs in front of them. ‘You’re all that’s needed for a good picnic.’ And Imogen realized it was true as he smiled. He was still taller than her, and the point of his nose met her line of vision. 

‘I think I’ll smoke a pipe one day, when I’m older,’ he said distantly, and he too stared at the smoke billowing from his cousin’s window. The scent of pipe-weed filled Imogen’s nose, and she felt very safe at that moment. 

The spell of seriousness broken, Imogen grabbed him by the sleeve and began to drag him towards the lawn. ‘But not today, Peregrin. Let’s find the cakes.’

Later in the evening, during an awe-inspiring fireworks show, Imogen and Pippin had a rather childish row from beneath a table on the lawn, where they quarreled over a particularly rare danish (which led to them missing the grand finale: a firework that took the shape of a dragon that supposedly filled the entire stretch of the sky.) Pippin’s closest cousin in age, Merry, who himself now sported a pipe and a cup of ale, as a twenty year-old hobbit might, teased the pair of them for it endlessly. 

‘You two will regret that for the end of your days!’ he smirked, shaking blonde curls, clapping Frodo on the back as they stood on the outskirts of a dancing circle. ‘When’s the next chance you’ll get to see Gandalf the Grey do magic like that?’

‘Magic?’ Imogen parroted hotly. ‘Those are fireworks, not magic.’

‘I wouldn’t be so certain of that, little one,’ Frodo shouted from over the music, and his smile was kind. 

‘Come on, Im.’ Pippin nudged Imogen in the rib, cocking his hip as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He looked on at dancing with discomfort. ‘Let’s go up to Bilbo’s. My mum and dad are having dinner; I’m hungry.’

‘I doubt I was invited,’ Imogen said under her breath, honeyed eyes transfixed on the couple’s dancing before them. 

‘The old Gaffer’s there!’ he cried, slightly outraged. ‘And you’re Bilbo’s neighbor!’

‘My uncle and cousin are his _gardeners_ ,’ Imogen reminded him, folding her arms over her chest, one foot tapping the ground to the rhythm of the song. 

‘And they’re up there, probably eating something rather good. Let’s go; I’ll sneak you in if I must -‘

Imogen stopped him with a palm on his forearm. ‘Let’s dance,’ she said firmly, containing every bit of how deeply mortified she felt by the suggestion. Who _else_ would she have asked? She had not _planned_ to ask him, it tumbled from her lips, but she drew in a steady breath and made a determined look. 

Pippin recoiled, pulling a face. ‘I’m not _dancing_! Let’s go!’

Grateful for the deflection and that he did not admonish her for asking, she followed Peregrin as he strolled quickly through the darkening blue light that began to fade over the hills. There was no one to guard the gate, but Samwise stood someplace nearby it, and nodded when he noticed the two of them. 

‘Mind old Mr. Bilbo, Imogen,’ he warned her with a sturdy look. ‘Good evening, Master Pippin.’ 

‘Sam! Come, have something to eat with us,’ Pippin said, hardly stopping as he walked on tiptoes, eyeing the buffet tables. 

They were lined up just outside of Bag End, the windows to the dining room just to their right. In front of them laid another smaller tent, though nearly a hundred people had to have been packed beneath it, sitting at tables. _‘How many had been in attendance down below in the lawn?_ , Imogen thought with amazement. Frodo crept up to the gate behind them, joining Sam at his side. 

‘You two go have a bite,’ Sam answered, but he let Frodo guide him by the shoulders towards the smaller crowd. 

“Let me try your pipe,’ Pippin whispered to his cousin, and Frodo laughed. 

‘You are a Took _indeed,’_ Frodo replied, tousling Pippin’s hair, the latter ducking away and wincing at the touch. ‘Absolutely not.’

The four of them found a stack of plates and filled them before finding seats, wedging between hearty conversations. Imogen and Pippin hardly spoke as they ate, but occasionally glanced at one another when someone said something particularly shocking, or when Merry began to pass Pippin his pipe before Frodo slapped it away, scolding both cousins. 

A grand an expectant hush rushed over the crowd when Bilbo called for attention at the front of the tent, smiling as he held a raised cup in one hand. The other was tucked neatly into a pocket of his waist coat.

He spoke, saying sweet things and odd things, and Imogen began to wonder what the old hobbit was going on about.

‘I _don't know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve!_ ’ he said at one point, a strange concoction of amusement and finality in his tone. Harsh murmurs erupted from the audience, and Pippin fought back a snort of laughter. Peering up at Frodo, she noticed that he looked rather calm, albeit sad as Bilbo continued.

 _‘Thirdly and finally_ ,’ he said, ‘ _I wish to make an announcement_.’ Bilbo nearly shouted the last word, and everyone beneath the tent sat, enraptured. ‘I regret to announce that — though, as I said, eleventy-one years is far too short a time to spend among you — this is the end. I am going. I am leaving now. Good-bye!’

And out of thin air, Bilbo disappeared. He simply _vanished_.

‘I’d like to know how he managed that,’ Pippin said, still clapping and shaking his head when it was finally quiet enough to speak. ‘I’d like to see just how. And I bet old Gandalf helped.’

Imogen nodded in agreement, staring at the spot where Bilbo had been standing. The grey wizard stood off to the side, and she watched as he slipped away, blending into the night. 

Neither she nor Pippin knew it at the time, but Bilbo would never again be seen in Hobbiton again. 

Imogen and Pippin eventually took refuge with full bellies and tired eyes beneath a weeping Willow on the lawn, bundled up in Imogen’s shawl, and they slept there amongst the party, as young children are quite capable of sleeping just about anywhere if they’re tired enough.

When Samwise shook Imogen gently awake with his broad palm on her shoulder, Merry giving Pippin an unceremonious kick in the side, the world was filled with a soft, grey light. The lawn was littered with stragglers from the day and night before, many sleeping in what appeared to be uncomfortable positions, either slouched over on picnic tables or flat on their faces of the grass. A few circles of hobbits still seemed rather awake, clutching mugs and swaying this way and that as they spoke nonsense Imogen couldn’t make out.

‘Come on home, Im,’ Sam whispered, helping her up. ‘I think we all might have a nice lie-down.’

‘Bye, Im,’ Pippin yawned, following Merry as his cousin led him towards home.

‘Bye,’ she said, following hers.

  
  


_Seventeen Years Later_

Imogen woke, and once again the sky beyond her bedroom window was a leadened grey. It was very late April and the day promised rain once more, as if often did in the Shire in the spring.

Sam wouldn’t disturb the garden up at Bag End until this afternoon; instead he’d be inside where it was warm, keeping it that way for Frodo, making tea and setting things right as Frodo would read to him. The Gaffer hardly made his way up the hill anymore, often sitting outside his door, smoking his pipe and reminding Sam needlessly to do this and that up at Frodo’s.

‘Stop calling him ‘Master,’ Imogen would sometimes hiss under her breath when Sam would refer to him as such. ‘He’s your friend; it’s odd -’

‘And it’s what he is to me,’ Sam would say with severe resolution, not wounded but proud. Samwise took great pride in tending to Bag End and Frodo, who one might assume would have begun to need the help, considering he was nearing fifty years old.

And yet, Frodo had not aged a day since his very memorable thirty-third birthday. Imogen was now twenty and nine herself; still young and spritely for a hobbit, not having become fully of-age, though quite old enough to look after herself, and have an ale at the inn after a day’s work with Sam. Frodo wasn’t considered old by any means, but certainly approaching it, but his face remained untouched by age, smooth like porcelain and bright. 

‘Old Bilbo was quite the same way,’ Pippin would say with a shrug whenever Imogen breached the subject, which she often did after a dinner with him, Merry, Frodo, Sam, and Fatty at Bag End. Pippin never failed to walk her home, considering it was along his route. ‘Perhaps it's a Took trait,’ he’d add with a smug grin. 

‘Childish in nearly every way,’ she’d chide playfully, him biting the edge of his pipe, sticking it between his teeth as he’d reach for the gate. 

‘I’ll see you in a few day’s time, for my dinner?’ Pippin began after one of Frodo’s small parties the night before. The late-April night was blessedly warm, and Imogen held her brown, woolen cloak in her arms rather than wearing it round her shoulders. 

‘Your birthday isn’t for weeks, Peregrin.’ 

‘I’ve got to have at least a few rehearsals!’ he retorted with mock outrage. 

Pippin had just inherited a late uncle’s hobbit hole, and while he and Merry often stayed at Bag End, sometimes for weeks on end, he seemed rather elated to have his own space. Tuckborough would be quite a walk in the dark from here, Imogen realized.

‘Are you going home tonight?’ she asked.

‘No, I’m staying with Frodo,’ he said, as if it was obvious. ‘He, Merry, Sam and I will go to Tookland together the day after tomorrow. You can come with us, if you’d like.’

Imogen furrowed her brow. ‘Then what have you walked me home for, then? If you’re going back up to Frodo’s?’

Pippin’s cheeks turned a shade pinker than the tepid April air would have done so themselves, and he cocked his head in confusion. ‘Because haven’t I always, Im? Any way, best get off to bed. It’ll rain again soon.’ 

A rather unspoken but thick tension filled the space between them, and Pippin took great care to wave it away as he shut the gate behind her. 

‘Good-night, Peregrin,’ Imogen said, grateful for the darkness to hide any sort of discomfort. 

With a wave, he took off for Bag End once more, and Imogen had approached the red door quickly, stealing inside of it without a glance back.

Imogen kicked the blankets away and got out of bed to dress, selecting the only clean pair of wool trousers. As she buttoned up a cream-colored blouse, a knock came at her door.

Her mother turned the knob and stuck her greying head inside, light from the hall pouring into the small room. ‘Sam’s been round for tea with your uncle,’ she said in a soft morning sort of voice. ‘He says to expect planting seedlings today, since it likely won’t frost again.’

Imogen nodded, shrugging into a waistcoat of sunshine yellow. She’d anticipated that, for seedlings preferred wet, grey days, for the hot sun would wilt them. She looked forward to it, though she knew her fingers would be chilled to the bone as the soil was not yet as warm as the air, and she drew in a deep breath. Frodo would likely continue their lesson in elvish; he was not fluent, but his abilities with the language impressed Imogen to no end regardless, and he seemed to take joy in helping her learn bits during afternoon tea. She and Sam could be dripping and soaked in earth, and he’d insist on them joining him. 

It was a bitterly cold afternoon, the morning warmth blown away with western winds that brought the misty rain and chill. With trembling fingers she and Sam carefully tucked in leafy greens and cabbage seedlings, the hoods of their cloaks like spiderwebs in the delicate rain. 

‘After this,’ Sam said decidedly, ‘we’re going to the inn. Going to have a nice, _warm_ stew, and sit by the fire.’

Imogen smirked to herself; Rosie worked at the inn, and knew she was what drew Sam there far more often than he ever used to go. ‘Sounds lovely,’ Imogen said sweetly.

‘Perhaps Mr. Pippin will be there,’ Sam said, forcing casualness into his tone. 

Imogen huffed out an impatient breath. ‘When are he and Merry _not_ at the inn?’ she replied dryly.

Sam shrugged, reaching for a small pot of brussel sprout seedlings. ‘When it rains, I suppose.’

‘Then perhaps he won’t be,’ Imogen said, and her tone suggested Sam not bring it up again.

Hobbits weren’t for customs so formal and _legal_ such as arranged marriages - a polite discussion with family was seen as quite enough on the matter - but considering the amount of speculation and gossiping that carried the subject surrounding young and eligible hobbits, one might think certain matches were formed on suggestion alone. It was no secret on either side of the Brandywine that many believed Peregrin Took to be an obvious choice for Imogen to make, considering how inseparable they had been for so long. 

There was truth in that; even as their tweens approached, Pippin’s prominent search for adventure and trouble did not elude him, and unless Imogen had committed to helping Sam in the garden, she was eager to go. Her brief and fleeting attempt at being a lady did not live to see her thirteenth birthday; when the other maidenhobbits paid her little mind and keeping dresses clean seemed helpless, she simply gave up. As they grew older, Pippin became quite close to his cousin Merry, who was already close himself to Frodo, and Imogen tagged along with either Pippin or Sam. All of them ended up spending many days and evenings at Bag End, and the group made for a hearty group of friends.

But Peregrin Took was of an important family with expectations, and Imogen was Frodo’s employee, regardless of a well-rooted friendship or not. 

Pushing the thoughts from her mind, she tucked their gardening tools in her arms as Sam stood from the muddied ground, helping her with the trowels. 

Even later at the inn, Pippin was a pervasive topic Imogen could not escape.

‘Both’ll be coming up on, ready for such things around the same time, by and by,’ the nosy inn-keeper had barely managed to whisper that night. 

The crackling fire in the homey, red and green little parlour room warmed their damp toes from the April weather; and she sunk into her chair, wishing she could disappear into it. ‘ _How had Bilbo managed such magic_ ’, Imogen had thought? The barkeep’s voice carried all the way from the barroom and into the parlour. ‘I’ve got my money on those two,’ he had said again. Imogen had clutched her mug tightly to her chest, avoiding Sam’s apologetic frown. 

‘I’m sorry to have to overhear such improper talk; some sort to not mind himself like that, what with you sitting right here!’ he murmured indignantly, glaring at the inn-keep as he’d squeezed past with a tray before returning to the wine cellar. ‘But I’m not sorry it’s been brought up again.’ Looking sideways at her rather nervously, Sam needled on. ‘I wonder, _have_ you given Mr. Pippin any thought?’

Imogen might have snapped her neck, given how quickly she’d spun it to rest testy eyes on her cousin, ale spilling over her mug and sloshing over dirt-laden fingers. ‘ _Given Pippen any thought?_ ’ she repeated back indignantly in a low voice. ‘Pippin is my dearest friend - 

‘And has asked you to dinner thrice since spring began,’ Sam reminded Imogen pointedly, taking a conservative sip from his frothy mug, quickly averting his eyes. 

‘Pippin is my friend,’ Imogen said again slowly, honeyed eyes unfocused as they gazed into the blazing fire. ‘And that is all, Samwise.’

‘And Violet Proudfoot’s been eyeing him up since Mayday last year,’ he said, frowning again like he was very sorry to have to say it, but someone had to. 

Imogen’s stomach twisted in knots, having little to do with hunger and the smell of stew wafting through the room as a barmaid came in with a tray of dinner. In fact, her appetite seemed to vanish, replaced with knots of unease. 

‘And what’s that got to do with _me_?’ Violet was lovely and kind and perfectly wonderful and despite her sweet disposition, the mention of her and Pippin made something in Imogen’s chest ache. 

‘I just don’t want to see you hurt, that’s all,’ Sam remarked in a small voice, eyes following the tray Rosie discarded at another table. ‘Mr. Pippin’s young, you both are; _he_ won’t go tarnishing a friendship because he’s told he ought to do this or that; perhaps it’s _you_ that’s got to do -‘

‘I am not doing anything,’ Imogen whispered, mouth in a thin line. A thousand arguments brewed in her head: ‘ _Why should I have to do anything? Why would I risk making such a fool of myself, when Pippin Took seemed to take very little seriously, especially things like courtships and marriage and love?_ ’ she said to herself angrily.

Sam was not one to pry unless the subject called for urgency; clearly deciding it was not such a matter and knowing he’d already said too much, he returned to his ale, leaving the prospect behind. 

Peregrin was handsome with his sharp nose and sweet voice, and kept Imogen’s heart light and her feet moving quickly, exploring the nooks and crannies of the countryside since they were children. A strong bond was undeniable. 

‘I am not a Proudfoot, _or_ a Baggins,’ Imogen reminded Sam tersely. _‘I_ know that. How come the entire Shire doesn’t know that?’

‘Perhaps they don’t care,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘You think Mr. Pippin would? I certainly don’t.’

‘Pippin cares for very little besides smoking and laughing,’ Imogen replied. ‘And that’s quite fine with me, but I won’t go putting ideas in his head about _us_.’

‘Just have dinner in Tuckborough, is all I’m saying,’ Sam whispered. ‘He’s likely lonely out there when he’s not at Bag End; he doesn’t like being alone.’

Imogen stared into the fire, wondering what a night with Pippin, in his own little home and no one else around would be like. Nerves coiled in her belly, and she didn’t know why. 

‘No,’ Imogen agreed quietly, and she took a conservative sip of ale. ‘He doesn’t.’

* * *

‘Oh, you’ve finally come!’

Less than a week later, Imogen stood on Pippin’s front step, glad to see her nasturtium seedlings taking off so well by the doorway. The walk to Tuckborough had been rather lovely, and a streak of color to her cheeks reflected back at her in the window. He took the basket she’d been holding, filled with seed cakes she’d made herself, and he grinned.

‘Thank you for inviting me, Pip,’ she said, and he ushered her inside with excited haste.

It was charming, and evident he and Merry had been hard at work. She recognized maps and paintings on the wall from his childhood home as he led her down the corridor, painted a soft yellow, and Pippin began pointing at certain things with the butt end of his pipe.

‘There’s the sitting room,’ he said, and she watched with mirth as he positioned his shoulders back and pulling a face, one thumb tucking into his suspenders. ‘I _sit_ there, occasionally.’

Imogen snorted, and she looked with admiration at the cushy chairs before the fire, which Pippin had recently stoked. It was smaller than his parent’s hobbit hole, but it was undoubtedly warm and lovely.

‘Pantry’s been stocked, of course, and I’ve even made a roast,’ he said proudly, guiding her to the end of the house, into the kitchen. It was bright, with south facing windows that had no drapes, as kitchens tended not to, and copper pots and pans hung from wooden beams above. ‘Here we are: home, I suppose, when I’m not at Bag End.’

Imogen smiled warmly, resting against the kitchen island that stood between them. ‘I’m happy for you, Pip,’ she told him, and she meant it. It made her glad for her old friend, to see the joy on his face about it all, rather than an entitlement. As he held his chin out happily, his nose pointing skyward, she decided he looked rather handsome. Almost incapable of swallowing, she cleared her throat. ‘When are the others to arrive? I didn’t notice them behind me.’

Pippin’s head tilted to one side, his expression a bit bemused. ‘They’ve seen it here, of course. Poor old Merry’s been moving me for weeks now, and Frodo’s brought some of Bilbo’s things that have piled up Bag End. I thought it’d be nice if we had a chance to,’ he shrugged, and shook his head slightly. ‘That is, I’ve hardly seen you without everyone else around.’

Imogen nodded, waving off the sentiment. ‘No, this is lovely, Peregrin. I only meant - I meant nothing by it. I’m really pleased. You’re all grown up now.’

Pippin rolled his eyes at that, and turned and bent at the waist, checking the pot in the oven. ‘Truthfully, I don’t think I’ll be here too often yet,’ he said. ‘I’ll be at Bag End plenty, you won’t rid of me that soon. There’s something rather strange going on with old Frodo, if you ask me, and I think he needs a bit looking-after.’ 

This piqued Imogen, and she leaned over the counter. If she was being frank, she always found Frodo to be a bit...odd. But so was Bilbo, and it did not make him unkind or cruel, though he often seemed weary, distant, distracted. In the more recent weeks, he seemed downright absent, often abandoning the dinner table after long, excusing himself to look for a pipe, only to be found an hour later, sitting alone by the fire, eyes always glancing up at the mantle. 

‘Do you think he’s all right?’ she asked in a hushed voice, despite the fact that they were very much alone. ‘Do you think he’s ill?’

Pippin grimaced, shaking his strawberry curls. ‘We’re at a loss, Merry and I,’ he admitted in defeat. ‘Have you heard anything peculiar? You and Sam are there often enough.’

Imogen shook her head, frowning. ‘Aye, I’ve seen him grow strange, but I thought it was just, perhaps, missing Bilbo. Or getting old. Though, he doesn’t look it, but we all know my thoughts on that.’

Pippin’s eyes widened; instead of a typical jest of good family lines and such, he nodded fervently. ‘I think we ought to talk with Merry and Sam, and old Fatty. If something’s wrong with poor Frodo, it’s not like him to trouble any of us with it. We’ve got to make it out for ourselves.’ 

‘Well said, Pip,’ Imogen agreed, and silence began to fill all round them. Pippin smiled wistfully, eyes flicking between her hands folded together and her eyes.

‘I’m happy you’ve come, Im,’ he said.

‘So am I,’ she replied.

* * *

Early May dawned gracefully in the Shire, bluelets and violets springing up everywhere in celebration to ring in Pippin’s twenty and eighth birthday. 

Imogen had returned to Sky Hill - Pippin’s new home, deemed as such for the white creeping phlox that bursted with flowers shortly after her first visit, giving it the look of a fresh blanket of snow. 

‘It reminds me of clouds,’ Imogen had said stoutly, thoughts of winter upon such a sight far from mind. 

‘Sky Hill it is, then,’ Pippin had announced. 

Upon her second visit, she ended up staying for three days; heavy rains and winds followed her there, and Pippin wouldn’t see her return home in such weather. Imogen quite enjoyed the time there; Pippin was an enthusiastic cook, seeming to enjoy the limitless possibilities without his mother and sisters fussing about, and already had a decent library of family books lining the shelves for Imogen to indulge in while he smoked his pipe and continued to lazily unpack, or kept the evenings warm and lively with his wild impersonations, songs, and ale. Imogen lodged in his guest room, one that faced the northeast, and shared his dress shirts for nightwear. Lying in the fresh new sheets each night, she smelled him all around her. It brought a comfort to her that clutched at her heart possessively, as if she needed to trap it there. 

Intrusive thoughts haunted Imogen; she and Pippin had been expected by many to return days ago, and while not wishing to walk in such a downpour was understood, it was likely all of the Shire knew by now that they were shut up in Sky Hill alone, together. If thoughts like this crossed Pippin’s mind, he did not voice them, or appear anything less than thrilled for company. 

On the third morning, when inexorable sun shone over the lush, green hills, Pippin offered her countless times to accompany her back to Bagshot, but she denied him.

‘You’ve been troubled with me enough as it is,’ she insisted, standing in his front garden, body positioned towards the road, clad in one of his waist coats. ‘And I’ll be back for your birthday in a couple of days.’

Imogen wouldn’t have minded him joining her at all, and almost detected a pang of loss as she began to strode away from his gate. However, she thought it best they not return together. With a wistful goodbye, Pippin remained at his door, sitting on a small bench. 

Only a few days later she found herself in her own clothing - clean woolen trousers, a pressed blouse of a light blue, and a waist coat of her own; Pippin’s washed and folded in a small basket - walking with Sam and Frodo towards Sky Hill. Even on their leisurely walk did Frodo seem elsewhere. 

Perhaps detecting Imogen’s prying look of concern, he spoke. ‘The youngest of us, in a hole of his own,’ Frodo mused, shaking his head a bit as the midday sun hung overhead, casting shadows of the three friends in front of their feet. ‘Let us hope our dear Peregrin does not burn it to the ground before midsummer.’

Sam gave a small chuckle, but Imogen swatted Frodo’s arm, earning a curt, ‘ _don’t do that to poor Mr. Frodo!_ ’ from her cousin. 

‘Pippin’s far more capable than we give him credit for!’ Imogen cried. 

‘Perfectly capable of drinking and singing far longer into the night than anyone else in the Shire, you mean, let alone running his own house.’ 

Imogen shook her head but she smiled, knowing Frodo’s remark was in jest. 

‘It’s a lovely little space, and he’s quite the host.’

 _‘Is_ he now?’ Frodo replied slyly, and Imogen’s smile faded swiftly. ‘And how was your rainy stay at Sky Hill, Imogen?’

Frodo meant no harm, his smile said so. But Imogen shot Sam a look, who seemed to shrink beneath his cloak. ‘We all know Peregrin prefers company,’ she replied tersely. ‘And that I prefer not to get soaked in rain.’

‘We do know that, little Im,’ Frodo told her, and they said no more until Sky Hill came into view. 

Sam pulled her back by the elbow as Frodo approached the gate, and she stopped to let him speak into her ear, words meant for her alone. ‘I know you and Mr. Pippin are close,’ he said, ‘but we’ll be around proper folk tonight. Not like one of Mr. Frodo’s dinners. Mind who you speak to and how you speak to them, Im.’

Hot shame bloomed inside of Imogen, and a light she didn’t notice seemed to dim. She nodded shallowly, pursing her lips into a thin smile. Sam returned it, and patted her shoulder as Frodo beckoned them to follow. 

Pippin pulled each of you into a warm embrace, but was quickly distracted by the party; Sky Hill was filled to the brim with Took’s, Brandybuck’s, Baggin’s, and Proudfoot’s. It was still considered a small affair, which was fitting, considering twenty and eight wasn’t necessarily a milestone occasion. Pippin’s mother, it seemed, had hired a cook; hobbits in white aprons bustled in the kitchen, arranging a table of meats, vegetables, and several heaping trays of pastries, pies, and cakes. 

Pippin was in his element; Imogen imagined his face must have hurt from smiling so much, and it brightened her heart to see him so. Pippin, the youngest child and an unexpected son, thrived with attention, and entertained the guests by leading in songs, and his infamous impersonation of Gollum - a wretched creature from Bilbo’s many tales. She watched as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins fanned herself, clearly harassed by the mention of any sort of penchant for travels. 

The night waxed and waned, and after dinner and dessert, Pippin led everyone to another table in the dining room laden with wrapped gifts; a Hobbit gave rather than received him on their birthday, and Pippin made a pleased show of doling out thoughtful trinkets to everyone. 

It brought him true happiness to do it, watching even old Lobelia open her gift (a lovely set of cutlery that had been passed down through the Took’s for many a generation). Imogen watched as even Sam was handed his; a handsome pair of leather gloves, which he tried and failed to refuse. 

‘You’re too kind,’ Sam said, nearly moved to weeping, and thinking it smart to be proper as he’d said while Lobelia looked on, Imogen nodded. 

‘You’re very thoughtful, Mr. Peregrin,’ she added as the old woman sneered at her, making a bee-line towards them. She pushed the awkward words from her lips laboriously, as if they were brick and mortar meant to build a wall between her and Pippin. 

His face crumbled in disappointment. ‘Mock me on my birthday, will you?’ he said, and his tone was hurt. ‘Don’t call me that, Im! You too, Samwise -‘

‘Don’t be silly, you ridiculous Took,’ Lobelia cut in, pursing her lips as she eyed Imogen with a curiously disapproving look. ‘She ought to be drawing up plans for a garden out front; it’s drearily bare there at present. Who throws themselves a party before planting a single annual? The girl knows her place. If you want her to address you any other way then _marry_ her, for goodness sake. He’d be doing you a favor,’ she added to Imogen, leaning between Sam and Pippin as if they couldn’t see her. ‘Even the name ‘Took’ would be an improvement. She’s awkward,’ she now said to Pippin, who was trying best not to laugh, ‘but she’s at least pretty, even for a Gamgee.’

Never had Imogen been more mortified in her entire life; incapable of finding proper words to respond with, she was close to tears when Frodo appeared behind Lobelia, frowning. 

‘Perhaps it’s time we fetch the carriage for you, dear Lobelia,’ he said, and he rolled his eyes while she couldn’t see. 

Immediately distracted, she rounded on Frodo, and began complaining loudly down the corridor about Bilbo and Frodo, and how they had cheated her out of Bag End. 

‘Old bat!’ Pippin said under his breath, his amusement and glee not stolen from him. ‘Come on, Im, last but certainly not least. Your gift is tucked away.’

Sam offered an apologetic look, but she weaved through the dwindling crowd as Pippin led her to his study. It was empty of anyone else, several trunks still unpacked on the floor and his desk, which Imogen was certain he hardly used anyways. He began sorting through loose papers and smaller wooden boxes.

‘My mother will have my head if I’ve lost it - oh! I’ve found it.’

With a proud beam, Pippin held out a small, rounded box carved from what appeared to be walnut; the wood was dark and smooth, and he gestured with a tick of his head at his open palm. 

‘Come on, Im, have a look!’ he urged. 

Imogen quickly cataloged all the things Pippin might possess that could fit into a box so small, and her blood seemed to run cold with nerves as she barely swallowed, taking it from him. Carefully she opened it and felt her mouth hang open; a thin, silver ring sat within it, tiny oak leaves ingrained into the band. Delicately it seemed to stare back at her, and she gaped at it, several questions flying through her mind at once. 

‘A ring?’ she breathed, finally finding the courage to face Pippin. 

His expression dropped from anticipation to fluster. ‘Oh! Well, it was my gran’s, you see. She never had any sons, and took to me, as you remember. She had it made expecting mum to have another daughter, and left it to me anyways. And, well, you’re rather like a sister to me, aren’t you? What does old Lobelia know, miserable old witch. You’re...my friend. My dearest friend, besides Merry, of course, and he’s kin. I want you to have it.’

Many emotions coursed through Imogen as Pippin blundered through his speech; she blinked back tears at his gesture. And yet part of her felt very ridiculous, for she had almost made a terrible assumption. 

‘Friend,’ she repeated stupidly, before slowly coming to herself. ‘Of course, yes. Goodness, Pip,’ she hugged him, and worried she’d revealed too much as she noticed his smile falter slightly. She released him, and plucked the ring from the box. ‘You’re too sweet to me.’ As Imogen tried to fit it onto a middle finger, she felt herself blush when it was too small. It slipped onto her ring finger with ease, and Imogen flexed her right hand. ‘It’s so lovely. You don’t think it’s, ah, you think it’s all right that I wear it? Your sisters?’

Pippin smirked again, a befuddled look creeping over his mouth. ‘Adore you,’ he went on, ‘and have plenty of their own jewelry. Let’s have a look!’

Pippin was inspecting her hand as she splayed it out in front of her waist when footsteps sounded at the threshold of the room; both their heads swung round as Merry and Sam walked in, both of their eyes flashing towards the scene. 

‘And what’s this we’ve stumbled into!’ Merry said, he and Sam exchanging excited looks. 

‘Pippin’s just given me his gift, uh, _my_ gift,’ she explained quickly. ‘You see, his gran, well, _your_ gran as well, Merry, thought he’d be another girl, like his sisters, so she has this ring made, and Pippin thought maybe I’d like to have it -‘

‘Yes, yes, all of our maiden cousins have rings like that,’ he said suspiciously, and he cocked an eyebrow. ‘Suits you quite well, Im. Aren’t you a thoughtful one, Pip?’

Imogen stepped away from Pippin as Merry came further into the room, and immediately looked at Sam. He looked at her wearily, and she shrugged, face crumpling as she wrung her hands together. 

‘Everyone’s gone off,’ Sam explained. ‘Even Mr. Frodo.’

‘Will you stop calling him that?’ Pippin cried, ‘you’ve even got poor Imogen saying it, like I’m some awful ‘sir’; you know you don’t _have_ to -‘ 

‘Yes, but I _prefer_ to,’ Sam said contradictingly, hanging his head a bit. 

‘Any ways,’ Merry said loudly, commanding attention. ‘Yes, Frodo’s given us the slip; showed old Lobelia out and never came back.’

‘On my birthday!’ Pippin shouted, frowning. ‘I’ve got two barrels of ale in the back garden!’

‘There’s something going on with our dear Frodo,’ Merry said in a low, almost menacing voice. Imogen felt a chill as he said it. 

‘It’s true,’ Sam said, forcing bravery into his words. ‘And he hasn’t been right since Gandalf came back.’

‘Gandalf’s back?’ Imogen, Merry, and Pippin all spoke at once. 

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Imogen began. 

‘He came weeks ago, after Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin left for Sky Hill to start moving. Mr. Frodo told me not to mention him, not just yet,’ he said with shame, as if it pained him to go against Frodo’s request.

'Did _you_ see Gandalf, Samwise?' Imogen pressed on.

‘Something is afoot,’ Pippin announced with resolution. ‘How come old Frodo’s keeping secrets? From us?’

‘I’m worried about him, truth be told,’ Sam said, and Imogen felt her heart break a bit as his face dropped with concern. 

‘Then we must figure it out, if he won’t trouble us with it,’ Merry said, wagging a finger to no one in particular. 

‘How?’ Imogen asked. ‘We cannot force him to speak about his woes.’

Merry nodded, and a clever smile pulled at his lips. ‘We can’t do that, but we can _listen_.’

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
